


Kindred Spirits

by daasgrrl



Series: Kindred Spirits [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief Underage, Incest, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He startles awake as a slight draught of air washes over his face, accompanied by the rustle of clothing more sensed than heard, and he knows two things without even thinking; his window is open, and Sherlock is climbing through it. Again.</i> </p><p>Character study with a side order of porn, or possibly the other way around. May contain traces of plot, but nothing of consequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to the lovely [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) and [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) for exacting ~~pain~~ beta. Remaining faults and failings mine.

He startles awake as a slight draught of air washes over his face, accompanied by the rustle of clothing more sensed than heard, and he knows two things without even thinking; his window is open, and Sherlock is climbing through it. Again.

Mycroft sleeps lightly, but not that lightly; it’s absurd that something so nearly silent could wake him. But in the same way a parent may sleep through sirens yet rouse instantly at the whimper of a child, his senses are tuned to that particular combination of sound and sensation. It’s always the same window, the one deliberate blank spot in his alarm system; for a normal person one of the doors might perhaps be considered a more attractive means of entry, but Sherlock has always enjoyed making a point of evading the outer perimeter of Mycroft’s security, not to mention scaling the brickwork, just to show that he can.

The small jolt of adrenaline subsides, and Mycroft’s eyes remain closed, but he’s nevertheless aware of Sherlock taking the six steps to the side of the bed, discarding his coat and scarf somewhere along the way. One day Mycroft may make a terrible miscalculation and die right here in his pyjamas, but one heavy-lidded glance is enough to reveal exactly what he’d expected to see. Sherlock’s profile is intimately familiar even in shadows. He continues to balance on the knife-edge between sleep and wakefulness as Sherlock slides in beside him without a word. There’s another draught of cool air as the blanket shifts, followed by the heat of Sherlock’s body.

There is a small chance that Sherlock just needs to get some decent sleep, as has happened on occasion in the past, and right now that would be absolutely fine with Mycroft. He has things to do in the morning, a government to run, and he’d be perfectly happy to wrap a protective arm around his brother and be done for the rest of the night.

However, before he can even turn on his side, Sherlock’s restless form is brushing against his, knees and hipbones digging into him, and a hand shakes him by the shoulder without pity. _I know perfectly well you’re awake_.

Mycroft sighs, attempting to snatch a few more seconds of sleep and failing. He reaches groggily for Sherlock’s arm, trying to still the movements— _for God’s sake, it’s the middle of the night_ —and it seems Sherlock is in a generous mood, because tonight he does actually stop. Instead he leans over and begins to kiss Mycroft on the mouth, softly and sweetly, if a little too insistent, and even Mycroft has to admit that there are worse ways to wake up. He parts his lips and lets Sherlock bring him to consciousness, sliding a hand up his shirt to the back of Sherlock’s head, the ridiculous curls soft beneath his fingertips.

Gradually, the rest of his body begins to rouse as well. It’s been a month, maybe two, since this last happened, and even after all these years, the taste of Sherlock’s mouth is intoxicating. Maybe it’s the rarity of it, or maybe it’s just that even in this libertine world where almost anything is now permitted, the thing between them remains forbidden. A taboo so strong that despite his flagrant disregard for propriety even _Sherlock_ has complied with the need to keep his mouth shut about it. At least, so far.

By the time Mycroft feels alert enough to participate fully, it’s clear that Sherlock’s store of patience is already exhausted, and he reaches for Mycroft’s free hand, guiding it to the front of his trousers. Mycroft can feel the hardness already straining against the cloth as Sherlock pushes into his touch. He thinks, not for the first time, that there’s always been a certain cold efficiency to the way Sherlock operates; sometimes he feels like some kind of semi-sentient masturbatory aid. Although why Sherlock can’t just deal with such things on his own like an ordinary person is another question Mycroft has never pursued. Perhaps, given the situation, he doesn’t really want to know.

The fact remains that whenever Sherlock wants the use of him, which is invariably at some ungodly hour of the night, he will just show up and demand it. Secure in the confidence that Mycroft will always supply whatever he needs, whenever he should need it. It’s insulting and wrong in more ways than one, and yet in the face of Sherlock’s desire Mycroft is helpless to do anything but respond, as he always has been. However, he hasn’t entirely lost his capacity for resentment, and so he deliberately slides his hand away, using it to grip Sherlock’s hipbone instead, secretly enjoying Sherlock’s sharp exhale of exasperation.

Undaunted, Sherlock simply moves up to straddle Mycroft properly, pushing their erections together until Mycroft can’t help but arch into him, gasping a little as they move against each other. Sherlock’s hands clutch as his shoulders almost to the point of pain.

Mycroft isn’t quite sure how this late-night routine came to evolve over the years, such that it now all seems perfectly reasonable and even commonplace. Still, for Mycroft each time evokes the distant memories of that winter evening in Sherlock’s teens, when he had first barged into Mycroft’s room and then into his bed, complaining of the cold. They had fought, as always, but for once heated words had spilled over into physical actions. Mycroft’s attempts to shove Sherlock back onto the floor had been thwarted at every turn with increasing violence. In the end Mycroft had managed to pin Sherlock down, but on the brink of victory Sherlock had managed to convince him, in the most underhanded of ways, to let him stay in his bed just a little longer. Where Sherlock had learned to use his mouth like that Mycroft had never dared ask.

As time passed, it became clear that it was a battle Mycroft would continue to lose.

Since then, it has been a covenant between them, unspoken but unbreakable. There have been others, for Mycroft at least, but none of them have ever been allowed to interfere with the _droit du frère_ , as it were. At one point Mycroft did try to put a stop to it, for both of their sakes, but the repercussions were swift and painful. He had been completely unprepared for the extent to which Sherlock was prepared to punish Mycroft, punish himself. Even in the current peace he maintains a sharp eye on Sherlock’s behaviour, watching for tell-tale signs of the return of old habits.

By now Mycroft’s eyes have adjusted fully to the half-light, and he pushes Sherlock off him far enough to start unbuttoning his shirt, easing it off, exposing the pale flesh of Sherlock’s chest and shoulders. He is, Mycroft automatically notes, looking healthy enough, if still a little too thin. But his face is drawn and intense, with the shadows under the eyes that betray days of feverish activity and broken sleep. He radiates nervous energy as Mycroft toys with him gently, running a fingernail over a raised nipple. Sherlock closes his eyes and shivers.

Mycroft sleeps in a four-poster bed. Its canopies are of a deep wine red silk trimmed with gold; sheer ostentation uneasily treading the borderline of vulgarity. All Mycroft’s appetites have ever been so; he restrains them for the most part through pure force of will, keeps his public image determinedly austere. But he is surrounded by constant temptations—in the forms of rich food, expensive wine, bespoke clothing, unnecessary drama. And Sherlock.

Sherlock, on the other hand, often acts as though he could live on brainwork and adrenaline alone, but for all his disdain for food and sleep and bodily functions, he is only human. Which makes him, as much as he would hate that Mycroft finds him so, surprisingly predictable.

“And to what _particular_ case do I owe the honour?” Mycroft finally asks, with as much archness as he can manage at this hour of night, not to mention the weight of his brother intimately pressing down on him. Sherlock seems lost in sensation as Mycroft caresses him further, pulling Sherlock’s head down to nuzzle against his neck, but Mycroft knows he’s not beyond hearing.

Over time Mycroft has noted that Sherlock’s visits fall into several classifications. Mycroft’s analytical skills are broader than Sherlock’s in nature; he prefers the manipulation of global events to reading the minutiae of individuals, but it’s only a matter of focus either way. In Sherlock’s case he’s had a lifetime to observe.

When Sherlock comes to him out of post-case boredom, it’s invariably accompanied by a prologue of whining. Requests for favours—money, contacts—reveal Sherlock’s ideas of seduction, which are often highly entertaining and always laughably transparent. Simpler desires for sleep or comfort require nothing more than Mycroft’s unconscious form beside him. This, then, the silent, reckless need, is the best of them; it indicates frustration, which is a sign that his brother is at least gainfully occupied.

Sherlock pulls away at his question, shaking his head dismissively, but then seconds later graces him with speech anyway.

“It’s wrong,” he declares, and starts unbuttoning Mycroft’s pyjama top, his hands swift and sure. “Just because the ballistics match up and there’s a confession…there’s something else…it’s still _wrong_.”

“James Egerton,” Mycroft says, because what else could it be? His brain automatically retrieves the details from the newspapers. Billionaire businessman, murdered two days ago outside his home by a disgruntled ex-employee, already found and arrested. Nothing in the rather sensationalised accounts to indicate hidden complications, and Mycroft doesn’t actually care who killed him or why, but Sherlock’s aggrieved tone makes him relent enough to reach up and stroke his arm soothingly. Sherlock leans into his touch as Mycroft continues. “He wasn’t shot?”

Sherlock screws up his face, and begins to struggle out of the remainder of his clothing in a thoroughly graceless manner. “Of _course_ he was shot. Even the police managed to work that part out. But I received an impromptu visit from Lansing himself, just prior to his arrest. He admits to being part of some mysterious group planning to kill Egerton. He also claims that _actually_ killing him was anaccident. Which is clearly absurd.”

“So they were _planning_ to kill him, just not _yet_.”

“Yes. Apparently.”

“That does seem rather unlikely. So where are the rest of his _cabal_ now?”

“He says they approached him first via email, a public connection of course, impossible to trace to a specific party. Everything planned through anonymous chatrooms. He was sent money, and a weapon, and destroyed all the packaging as instructed. He says he was told just to _scare_ Egerton, fire a shot in his direction, maybe make him bleed a little. If true, it would make a considerable difference in his sentencing. Which is why he came running to me.”

None of this has been in the papers. Feeling much more thoroughly awake now, Mycroft considers for a long moment, sifting and discarding. Then he props himself up on one elbow to pull Sherlock towards him for another kiss.

“So? Surely you don’t actually _care_ how long he goes to prison.”

“I don’t. That’s not the _point_. He’s far too stupid to be lying. Which means something else is going on, and I want to know what it is.”

“And I suppose you’ve already run round half of London annoying a lot of people who might have wanted Egerton dead, or frightened? Sounds exhausting. Maybe you should focus more on the people who _didn’t_.”

“Yes, thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps. “That narrows it down nicely to the rest of the population.”

“You’re not listening.”

“That’s because you’re not making any _sense_.”

Despite his annoyance, it doesn’t stop one of Sherlock’s hands from reaching out to roughly fondle the bulge of Mycroft’s erection. It’s more a gesture of impatience than affection, but nevertheless for a moment Mycroft completely loses his train of thought. Sherlock presses his advantage by mouthing Mycroft softly once through the restraining fabric, a gesture that he well knows always drives Mycroft to distraction. Before long, the pyjama bottoms are pushed off as well.

Mycroft knows that in this kind of agitated mood Sherlock is going to want to fuck him, and that’s fine, but he’ll have to work for it. He finally switches on a bedside lamp, blinking as it briefly dazzles him, then retrieves a half-depleted bottle from a drawer, tossing it to Sherlock to manage. He deliberately keeps Sherlock waiting as he folds his pyjamas into a neat pile for later retrieval, composing his own thoughts as he does so. Given what he knows about Egerton and his circumstances, he feels there are some definite possibilities there. Of course he can’t be absolutely sure, but then one never is.

When he finally lies back with his legs apart, Sherlock makes his displeasure clear in the sulky way he slicks up his hand and begins.

“Do be careful,” Mycroft says mildly, after a particularly violent intrusion of Sherlock’s fingers. He doesn’t actually mind too much—he’s taken a lot worse at times—but he feels it would be polite of Sherlock to pay at least a little attention to what he’s doing. Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust, but he’s gentler after that.

“No one would go to such complicated lengths in order to _avoid_ killing someone,” Sherlock says at last, before withdrawing his fingers altogether and turning his attention to his own erection, which has shown no signs of flagging in the interim. He replenishes the fragrant oil in his hands and strokes himself roughly as he considers. Mycroft enjoys the show with a smugness that comes from having the upper hand, for once.

“No, they wouldn’t. Which means I rather suspect your accidental assassin is telling the truth,” he says, with a studied casualness.

“You know something.”

Immediately, Sherlock scrabbles up between Mycroft’s legs until they’re chest to chest, his hands by Mycroft’s shoulders. He examines Mycroft’s face intently as though it could somehow enable him to read his very thoughts. Mycroft just smiles, knowing how much it will infuriate Sherlock.

“I don’t _know_ anything. I merely suspect.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” Mycroft retorts. “That _is_ why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Sherlock makes a sound remarkably similar to a snarl, and pulls back long enough to drag Mycroft’s legs up and apart before pushing just the tip of his cock inside. Mycroft breaths a small sigh of pleasure and pain, trying to ease himself into a more comfortable position, reaching out for the spare pillow to provide further support. Sherlock stops then, waiting for him to adjust, even though he appears to be almost vibrating with frustration. As much as Sherlock must sometimes be tempted to overrule Mycroft, punish him, hurt him, Mycroft knows that it’s not in him to do so. At least, not here, not in this _particular_ way. Instead, Mycroft admires Sherlock’s rare, precious exercise of self-control as he pushes in carefully the rest of the way, biting his lip as he does so. It is strangely endearing.

Mycroft lies back and briefly allows himself to drift into the sensations as Sherlock begins to move inside him, caution gradually giving way to need. He lets Sherlock take from him what he requires, not bothering to seek too much of his own pleasure, not yet. At this moment what he has is enough. Of Mycroft’s many indulgences, Sherlock is by far the most exquisite, and the most dangerous. But as he watches desire warring with thought across his brother’s features, it’s one he will risk everything to hold onto.

Sherlock is quiet now, eyes closed, concentrating, his breaths coming deep and even as he thrusts. They’ve never discussed exactly why this helps him, but Mycroft is of the private opinion that the intense physical stimulation somehow manages to quiet the chaos of Sherlock’s profusion of thoughts. Often everything he really needs to know about a case is already there; needing only to be rearranged in a more orderly manner, which is exactly when he’s most likely to show up in Mycroft’s room.

And sometimes, Mycroft can’t resist giving him a little bit of a push.

“How _have_ JRE Group been faring lately, Sherlock?” In past months Egerton and his conglomerate have featured in the papers for many more reasons than this latest incident.

Having found his rhythm, Sherlock doesn’t break it for a moment. But his words come slowly, dragged from him as though from one dazed. “Not well. Recession. Downgraded. Breach of covenant.”

Mycroft leaves the baser criminal elements to Sherlock, but the upper strata of society are an entirely different matter. One never knows when a little information might come in so very useful, and he has access to as much as he can absorb, which is considerable. Sherlock sneers and refers to it as professional voyeurism, which Mycroft balks at but never actually denies.

“Interestingly, Lady Cecilia has a good deal of money. Old money,” Mycroft adds, lazily stroking his cock in time to Sherlock’s movements, one arm angled up behind his head. His words come in clumps, his breath catching after ever phrase. Under the circumstances, it takes an effort of will to keep his voice level and calm, but he wants this, wants Sherlock to hear it. “She’s a lovely girl, but from such a _protective_ family. Everything tied up in living trusts and so forth, even after her marriage. And I hear things haven’t been going well at home.”

Which means Mycroft suspects any failed attempt on Egerton’s life—especially one only traceable to some imaginary conspiracy—wouldn’t be the last. Having established a precedent, suspicion would be much less likely to fall on Egerton were the _next_ attempt to tragically claim someone close to him instead. Such as his beautiful and flagrantly unfaithful society wife, whose untimely death would finally release sufficient funds to rescue Egerton’s faltering companies. If only the disgruntled ex-employee hadn’t been so inept as to actually kill his victim outright during the intended ‘attempt’ on his life. It’s all pure conjecture, of course, but nevertheless one based on a certain amount of logic and experience.

Having said his piece, Mycroft waits and watches, taking his pleasures as much from the shape of Sherlock’s thoughts as his actions.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, and for one startling moment his eyes open wide, and Mycroft can feel the hard, echoing pulse in his own cock. A pang of longing sweeps him; he wishes he were the one fucking Sherlock right now, wanting only to have Sherlock spread out beneath him, helpless, wearing that same beautifully stunned expression on his face. “Oh, god,” Sherlock continues. “Not _wrong_. Not wrong at all. Not _finished_.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice comes out hoarser than he’d intended. “Yes, I think so.”

Whatever else Mycroft might have had to say is lost, as he finds himself unable to hold out against his body’s demands any longer. He angles himself up insistently against Sherlock’s thrusts, groaning as desire claims him, inescapable. His hand moves frantically on his cock, finally surrendering himself entirely to pleasure as Sherlock moans and shudders against him. It lasts forever; it lasts not nearly long enough.

For it’s only in these fleeting moments, when all rational thought burns away, that the barriers of reserve between them can ever truly dissolve. It’s the only compensation for the things they can never say or be to each other. Something to hold them together through all the suspicion and manipulation and endless quarrelling. _Flesh of my flesh_ , Mycroft thinks, nonsensically, and reaches out blindly for his brother’s embrace, feels it fiercely returned. _God, Sherlock_.

When he comes back down to earth Sherlock is already dozing against his shoulder, probably the best approximation of sleep he’s had in days. Mycroft takes shameless advantage of the opportunity to study his profile, run a furtive hand over his cheek, cover the softness of his mouth with his own. As far as sentiment goes, he lost that particular battle to Sherlock long ago, but he preserves his advantages of wealth and information in order to retain as much ground as he possibly can.

With that thought in mind he lies back down and lets himself luxuriate for a brief while in the sensuous, heady aftermath of sweat and the scent of musk, and the filthy stickiness drying on his stomach. Sherlock’s careless breaths are warm and moist against his cheek. He doesn’t know if Sherlock really feels anything for him—if he _can_ , in fact, feel anything for him other than a kind of grudging need. In the end it doesn’t matter, because Mycroft has no real choice. If he goes back to refusing Sherlock he knows there are many dealers in other forms of stimulation and oblivion who share no such compunctions.

“ _If_ you’re right,” Sherlock mumbles suddenly, apparently having dozed long enough. “There’s nothing more to be done.”

“No. Justice has been served. Except for your unfortunate client, of course.”

“Which means… now I’m just bored again.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick open, and he runs his hand over Mycroft’s hip, follows the rounded curve of his belly to the base of his spent cock. It twitches slightly at the stimulus, but on this particular night Mycroft really _has_ had quite enough.

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock. Just sleep.”

Sherlock stares at him in the darkness. “Maybe I should be getting back to the flat. John’ll be wondering.”

“No, he won’t. Not unless you wake him up to tell him he should be.”

“I might just do that.”

Mycroft is thankful that apparently not even John knows why Sherlock disappears at night from time to time. Maybe he doesn’t even realise that he does. One day Mycroft may encounter John in the way of things, and he will have the greatest difficulty in meeting Mycroft’s eyes, and that will give it away. He'll deal with that if and when it happens.

Sherlock’s eyes are bright now, challenging. He gives Mycroft one more provocative squeeze. “Maybe _he’d_ be more interested.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft says, his face carefully indifferent, although a thin, cold thread of some unnamed emotion slices through him. He is grateful to John for looking after his brother, of course, but there are limits to his gratitude. Nameless lovers might be one thing, but he knows Sherlock really does care for John, despite himself. Which makes John different from any of the others. If Mycroft really wanted only what was best for his brother, he wouldn’t mind. Yet, he does.

“Jealous, Mycroft?” Sherlock really _is_ taunting him now, reverting in an instant to annoying little-brother mode. His ability to push Mycroft’s buttons is unrivalled.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft repeats, allowing just enough truth to be plausible in his composure.

He’s now firmly braced for more of Sherlock’s jibes, perhaps something about his weight or his age or lack of stamina, but Sherlock’s mood has shifted yet again, quicksilver.

“You needn’t be,” Sherlock says. There’s a dark solemnity there that catches at what passes for Mycroft’s heart. It reminds him of the time when Sherlock was young enough to actually look up to him; when Mycroft was still his first port of call for answers to childish questions, or things that troubled him. He wonders if Sherlock remembers that time, if it ever really existed.

Mycroft has nothing he can to say to that, so he just shakes his head and wrenches himself off the bed to go and take a much-needed shower. By the time he returns, Sherlock has gathered his things and departed, with only a trace of his warmth and scent still lingering on the sheets. Mycroft dresses himself slowly, turns off the light, and settles down for whatever sleep he can wrest from the remains of the night.

Yet despite his best intentions, he lies awake for a good while longer, transfixed by the patch of light from the uncovered window where Sherlock has been and gone, leaving Mycroft’s thoughts hopelessly tangled in his wake. Surely this can’t go on forever; not just the night-time visits, all of it. Maybe in years to come Sherlock will finally long for something different, something more in the usual way of things, more _normal_.

And then what will hold them together?

But as Mycroft closes his eyes, he remembers the momentary softness of Sherlock's face, and the warmth in his voice; and he allows himself to be comforted.


End file.
